Ajmal Khan A.T is a bilingual writer who writes in English and Malayalam, his mother tongue. His English poetry collection My Tolerant Nation is published (forthcoming) by Wings & roots (2017) and Malayalam one line story collection Museebat (2017) published by Monsoon Books, Mumbai. His poems have featured in Muse India, Bangalore Review, Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine, Tump Print Magazine, Beyond the rainbow literary magazine, Cafe Dissensus Magazine and The Sunflower collective among others. His poems have also appeared in anthologies including GOSSAMER; An anthology of contemporary world poetry by Kindle Magazine.

Rejected poem ​

​The poem was accusedas anti nationaland rejectedlike a US visa applicantfrom Muslim countryIt wanted to prove as nationalistIt started with Vande matharamthe continuing lines were only nounsof the independence strugglesin which the poem was part ofRest of the lines were written in Green,White and Kesari in colorSigned on the lines which start with J&Kthat they are integral partit ended with national anthemThe poem was again rejectedon the groundsit had two names Hyder Ali and Tipu Sultanin the foot notesyntax had no saffron and khaki patternMoplah rebellion is included as one lineand instead of 1947its written Azaadi.

My missing poem​

​My poem said to be missingby the editorI got a formal letter today saying"Your poem is missing and we regret to inform you thatwe can't publish missing poems"I had sent it via Registered postsigning on the poemHe had to sign on the registerto accept my poemand on the records he has singed on itStill he says my poem is missingDid any ABVP goons assaulted my poemafter the editor singed on it?This time my poem had a Muslim nameunlike last timeit had a Dalit name thenEditor didn’t accept my last poem sayingI haven’t attached an originalScheduled Caste Certificatesince they found the attached certificate is fakeNow I didn’t have any Muslim certificate to attach withbut he might be sure of itfrom the syntax, adjectives, verbs and rhymesthat its a Muslim before it was "missed" between the editorsWhere does all the missing poem goes?To the dust bin of the editor and thento the dumping wastes ?Until a new poem being written and publishedthe idea of my poem see no lightUnless my poem is found in between by the policeor the dead body of my poem found in editors dust bin.

8 ways to look at a cow in India ​

​1. Did the Hindus never eat beef?Dr. Ambedkar said yesthey did

2. Cow is a holy animal- said the Brahminand waited for Dalitto remove the dead cow

3. "The cow and the bull are sacredand therefore should be eaten"-Apastamba Dharma Sutra

4. Aklaq didn’t ate it-the postmortem reportand forensic report

5. There are only Muslims and Dalits killedin the race of Gaurakshawhy?

6. Urine and cow dungthe holy profitthan milk

7. Who got the profit of cow?Mosalman butcher?or the Bhaniya merchants and exporters?or the Saffron?

8. Again one more killedwas told, he ate beefNo one asked,if he had food to eat.

Gulbarg Society​

​A black cat is still hanging around here and therefor many years nowsince 2002The old blood scars have become backlike the colour of the the cat skinSpiders have conveniently made netsthat covered many of the scarsPigeons have made nests on the chimneywhich were burnedThere is silence everywherea deadly silencethe silence coming out of the fear of dangerthe colour of the fear is the colour of the burned dresses of kidswhile they were burned aliveThe word truth is capable to shake the foundingstones of this buildingThe dusty case files in the Supreme court and High courthave become food for termitesThe wind that use to come some times from the Eastand embrace the building says"wait the truths will come out one dayyou have to wait until justice come"It has been long time since wind cameIts scared of the cat, spiders or termites ?

Bijay Kumar Show from Durgapur, India has been teaching in National Institute of Technology, Durgapur for about 10 years. He enjoys teaching and research and likes to spend quality time with family. To him, poetry is the painting of one’s inner self with colours of eclectic feelings. Poetry is also a source of contentment and peace for him. His poetry has been published in several online magazines and in various anthologies

​Only Love

I asked the rising sun in despair,Why don’t you freeze?On the wake of global warming;I asked the glorious full moon in disgrace,Why don’t you hide and become ‘no moon’?Having witnessed the violence on femininity;I asked the stars in anguish,Why don’t you stop twinkling?While seeing terror attacks on humanity;I asked the vast blue sky in grief,Why don’t you cover yourself with cloud’s blanket?On the crisis of global intolerance;Then reply came from………The Sun and the Moon,The blue sky and the little Stars;That…………Why don’t you wake up and turn inwards?To witness all the chaos inside;Outer world is just a reflection,Of everybody’s inner hate and violence;Thus the only solution for all these is,LOVE and ONLY LOVE.​

Brandon Nakasato, 36, of Anchorage, Alaska is a Research Analyst with Alaska's Department of Health. Nakasato has been published previously in Vox Poetica, The Houston Literary Review, The Catalonian Review and Calliope Nerve. He is the former editor of the magazine, CENTURY 121, and is currently finishing his first collection of poems.

Re-collection​

​As End of Line nears,Life is nothing but the whisper of echoes.

We are now deaf to a familiar siren:Sepia-tone nostalgia.And bare-breasted Justice has removed her blindfold.

Honne and Tatamae​

But I wished to know him.For us to be face-to-faceand share true sounds.

In our sanctuary My Love wondered:Why a facade for some,and an intense difference for me?

Under cover,I breathed:Because the light is for you,My Love.

Only See Awakening​

​I wake up.I wake up with no day.And it is darker.I remember the last twilight.It was beautifulbut it is fleeting, andDarkness follows.I look to the moonlight,but it is mere reflection.Darkness subsumes the image not material.I wake once,just once more.And it is darker still.I can see no difference,between light and night.I was-am in one and the other:And, so, in all of timewe can touch absolutes.If we can only see.

Hymn of Ancient Hope​

​For eighteen generationsI've called to hearts of stone.And for as manyI've brought greens,and black eyed peasto the table.

For, the substanceand the symbol, of suchwas to be for all of us.

I've called to hearts of stone.And imagined tongue and aircould chisel to the nub of them.And I've been metwith a grotesque mettle.

* * *

Under the gray cloudcoverwith its shorter shadowsI had later sightof the stone-breaker.

He testified from ahymnal of ancient hope.He spokeof blue streamsand clouds breakingwith light intrepid,Audaciouslybreaking their aloof perch.He spoke of trust in shared destiny,and of our eventual reconciliation.When I would enter the "We, the People"of the sojourning dream.

Amazing, Gracetouched their hearts.And what America could be,We had become.

Devapreeta Jena is 23 years old who just completed her masters in Sociology from Ambedkar University, Delhi. Her discipline made her to look at things objectively, therefore most of the times she finds herself analyzing things around her, be it politics, literature or people. But she makes sure that her sanity is also kept intact and she finds the medium of poetry the perfect medium to turn silences, innuendos and subtleties of life into words. Often she struggles with words, because her objective self is always in conflict with her subjective self. She loves reading fiction, contemporary theory and has discovered newfound interest in psychology.She thinks that poetry can become a platform where one can ask questions to oneself as well as to the whole society. She thinks through poetry one can seek beauty in harsh memories and even in nauseating experience of everyday life. She has currently taken a break from academics and exploring poems by Rimbaud and Charles Baudelaire.

​A Debauch Friend

​We meet once in eight monthsOnly to give wings to our narrativesNarratives of degeneracyWho said decomposing oneself is not part of existing?Who said conscious perversion is not living?She breathes in wantonnessI breathe in conscious self destructionShe consciously plays the victim of a lewd worldIn a secret attempt to pull the immoral trigger off her headI take a dip in moral corruption, to test the grand theories in my headShe takes a swim in debauchery, to debunk the moral burden imposed on a wifeWe will again see each otherOnly to give wings to our chaotic narratives!

MODERN LOVE​

​Hopping into your lover’s shiny car, only to undergo the usual drill silentlyFirst the monuments, then some eatery joint and finally anticipating the last stopHauled to a secluded place, injecting the environment with esoteric musingsOnly to know that they are falling to some deaf ears, meeting their demiseBy colliding with frosted windows of the carEven despair has a perky laughter!

Windows were rolled up, a moment of intimacy followed sans inhibitions;Both lovers unconsciously conforming to the patterns of routinised portrayalof some flimsy affection .Only to arrive at one possible outcomeGliding over each other, sliding his hand to wake up his animate objectand begging his lover to give a hand- an extension to masturbatory handEvoking a perverse defense of some kind, “my hunter is not in some search of some orifice”But this time she made a breach, to what she considered to be normalSettling in a comfortable position of an observerShe watched his guy to masturbate helplessly!

If he looked for a masturbatory hand She shifted her stance from a an embodiment of a useful hand to an useless deliberate watcher of afflictions of human wretchednessWhile savouring this facile power driven activity, something got unearthedA transactional relationship covered in sweet nothings of yesterday and tomorrowOf general niceties, of relentless promises, of manifestation of cultural and material assetsTo preserve individual needs only in actual performatory dependence, not in isolation

When Intoxicating effects of repetitive pleasure has started to wear offAnd when you finally look into the eyes of a person sitting next to youSmoking a cigarette casually, two eyes staring at each other, a threatening void crawls in Stealthily spreading across all over the body like some creeper plant growing mercilesslyBut a void is deferred and it will be deferred numerous times in future, one after anotherIn gloomy murmurs, in tragic storytelling, in silent adieusCounting stars on return back home, she felt less jolted this timeBecause “routinised desire” for once confrontedthe cacophony of abandoned voicesA stand-off between habitual desire of a rusted kind and desire(undiscovered) as such!!!!

A FRIENDLY FOE-WORLD WE INHABIT​

​In a world that is hostile, why do you seek companionship?In a world that is nonchalant, why do you seek permanence?In a world that is driven by passive love, why do you go on hunting evidence of love?Yes we are talking about post-modernism, where everything is modern, except people.Where relationships are governed by utility, and education motivated by prospect of securing a jobWhere we unconsciously consume half-fragmented pieces, and label them as knowledgeAren’t we all suffering from amnesia?Our memories facing senescence, not because we are turning oldBut everybody wants to give up the capacity to undergo the trauma of a memoryWe are on our way to become labourers; we will happily sell our labour without any questionsAnd forget to ask basic existential questionsBecause we do not exist anymore, we are the worms occupying spaceYes, in foreseeable future, I envisage an apocalypseWe won’t budge, because we have been trained to become consenting individualsThis apocalypse is nothing like World Wars; it would creep slowly in our lives, and seep into our lives without asking our permission.What is this apocalypse we are talking about?It is something that once Hannah Arendt[i] warned us about, the ultimate fate of human conditionWhere everything will get mixed up, and you will lose your discerning power to demarcate different realms.The realm of labour, the realm of work and the realm of actionPolitics have become just a medium to address immediateRevolution has found itself limited on streets and social mediaAnd angst is expressed by sharing memes on Face bookIf this is not new repression, then what it is?Reading has acquired an altogether different hapless twist, everybody is a reader nowEverybody reads, in juxtaposition with everybody consume, consciously or subconsciously snippets of information, enlightening quotes, and short excerpts picked from books.Readers they are, aren’t they?Vomiting vociferously names of authors, being a relentless quote mongerIs this a beginning of knowledge or,Is this a beginning of the pretence of knowledge?But, I defend this pretension. What is youth without pretension?I rebut, pretension is dialectically embedded in authenticity.A successful pretension can only be carried out by an authentic reader.But they say, we would sacrifice authenticity in our mindless drive to elevate pretension.Love doesn’t need to be re-invented anymore, it is just provided like any other commodity right at your doorstep.Aren’t we seeking sanitized version of love, love without conflicts; propagated by dating sites and marriage matrimonial websitesWhy every enjoyment has acquired obscene pattern of engaging in small talk??Nonetheless we are living, political beings we are; because we are the next progenies of critical thought.We have made a difficult promise to ourselves, not to live like automatons anymore

[i] In “Human condition”, Hannah Arendt identifies three aspects of human existence that are work, labor and action. According to her, these three realms add unique components to human existence. In the realm of labor, individuals are concerned with economic sustenance and physical reproduction. Work, on the other hand, is the realm of creating artefacts with the help of implements. In other words, it is the sphere of fabrication and creating something which is not natural. Thus it is not as such required for economic well being rather it is governed by instrumentality, more of means and end category. Creation is important aspect of work which further gets memorialized in history, in drama, in poetry etc. Action is the realm where people engage together and participate in discussions. It is a matter of taking risks and contingency. It is not instrumental and not governed by means-end reasoning. Actors do not know precisely what it is that their actions might lead; and in acting they disclose who they are and what they desire from society at large. For Arendt this is the sphere which epitomizes human as political being.

Anoucheka Gangabissoon is a Primary School Educator in Mauritius.She writes poetry and short stories as hobby.She considers writing to be the meaning of her life as she has always been influenced by all the great writers and wishes to be, like them, immortalized in her words.Her works can be read on poetrysoup.com and she had also appeared in various literary magazines like SETU, Different Truths, Dissident Voice.She has also been published in Duane’s Poetree and also in an anthology for the Immagine and Poesia group.Her poems are often placed in free online contests.

​Strength

​Naked,I felt liberated!Naked,I felt vulnerable!The arrows of rumors were aimed at meGrinning at meWith an evil confidenceYet,I stood,Faced themNaked, liberated and vulnerableAs would an angelFaced with demonsAs would purityFaced with malicious contemptAs would faithFaced with the harshness of life!

Do I even care about rumorsRumors, resounding loudly in my earsAs do frogs' songsOn a wet and clammy nightWhen I sneak out to climb a peakAll alone, merely to be able to enjoy silence,Silence mixed with sparkling starsSilence imbibed with the dampness of my beating heartSilence immersed with the hues of darknessCreating in me and around meA bubble in which I do hop inExcited at its intended destination!

The arrows of rumors hit meAnd I smile at themWatching them disintegrateThe moment they touch my skin!

Pray, can rumors ever be mightierThan the innocence of Truth?

​My belief in myself

​I trusted my belief in myselfUntil I was thrust on a new path!As I walked,I could not understand whyBells resounded in my soulButterflies bubbled noisy in my heartEmpty clouds filled up my thriving mindBringing me to a stateWhere I only wanted to runAnd seek shelter thereWhere none would beExcept the Lord of all CreationsAnd all of His acolytes!But my path pulled meAs if I was a hungry fishAnd it, a mere bait!My path pulled meAs if I was withered vegetationAnd it, rainwater!

It is common to be cautiousBut it becomes thrilling to be adventurousHeart heaving heavilyI let go of my apprehensionsAnd hopped on my new pathStill armed with belief in myself!

​What is this all about Love?

​What is this all about loveIs it a mere attraction?Is it all about lusting?Is it about providing care?Or is it simply filling upA need, in us, ratherThan in the one we claim to love!

What is this all about loveDo I merely write of itAs I know it not?Do I speculate about itBecause I am made of it?

Pray, for me, love is a balloonTo be, it needs to be blownTo survive, it needs to fly, high above the groundAnd be admired, for its beautiful colorsAnd attractiveness!Once it pops, everyone moves onEven if it remains, like life, a memory!

But what is this about loveSo much coveted by the whole of humankindSo much neededSo much written aboutSung aboutSpeculated aboutWhen it remains a mere balloonWanting to be imbibed with its own essenceAnd allowed to fly,Free and unrestricted!

Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran, poet and fabulist originally from New Hampshire, now residing on the plains of Oklahoma. His work can be found in magazines, journals, reviews and anthologies. He has two poetry books, "The Cellaring" a collection of 80 poems of light horror, paranormal, weird and wonderful work. His newest book, "A Taint of Pity: Life Poems Written with a Cracked Inflection just released on Amazon.com. He is a three time Pushcart Prize and twice Best of the Net Nominee for 2016-2017. Ken loves writing, thunderstorms, walking in the woods at night and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.

​The Heron and the Moon

Soft is her breath as the full moon risessmiling looking down at smooth calm waterswarm breezes whisper to the gentle ripplesthe lonely heron stands stoically entrancedserenity lulls the heart and warms the spirit.Sounds of the city, lights and people are nullseagulls and terns have found their roostsfog horn speaks from the rocky outer banksswells carry seaweed on a high running tidestars strive to shine thru the bright lunar glowa ketch cruises by with her mizzenmast down.Venus clams squirt water all along the beacha ghostly chill suddenly wraps all around usthe wind changes to an on-shore sea breezethe great blue heron extends her wings widecaptures the zephyr and rises into the nightreflected by the light of the beautiful full moonoff to the sand dunes to nap until the sunrise.​

​Little Girl in the Cemetery Garden

On a Sunday night in late springbirds have gone, stars now shinethe moon is rising just over the hillon the granite bench in the gardenI reflect on burying Dad last weeka little girl appeared by the fountaindancing her little minuet in silencewhite moon flowers began to openher dress was white with red rosesI realized that what I was seeing is alittle ghost girl, dancing to the moon.I started to speak, then thought betterafter she finished, she turned to me,smiling, her little form just melted away.I was saddened to see her disappearbut realized, she had made me feel asense of tranquility during my deep loss,calming my once lost soul into serenity.I return, upon each night of the full moonto talk to my Dad as he rests and then Igo to the stone bench to sit and relax towatch the little girl dance in the garden.

​Winter of Days

Vermilion tears stain unblown dust,acquiesced moment of life's ending.Hallucinated dreams of flying in space,hoist a mug to those who rode the fire.Memories jostling in a hazy foggy mist;wondrous thoughts of questionable lore.Melancholy taint in the winter of my days;gifted choices still remain in a full denial.Kneel before the flickering flames of gold;soft whispers echo upon the cellar walls.As Lucifer pursues begging for our soulsdodging his temptations we run on home.Dad's wash cars with rain clouds showingMom calls him stubborn giving him a kisscatching turtles, we're told to release themtoting towels, crayons, paper and snacks,we draw frogs and swim down at the pond.After fall and Thanksgiving, winter returns andwe start at the top and begin the long ride, ourtoboggan finds a six foot drift burying us alla long climb back up for another slide downgood old memories grasp my winter of days.​

The Stand ​

Glorious trees be they aspen or birchkindred rise toward the sun and skythe Spring brings rain for tender rootsbuds exploding into new green leavessongbirds build nests and raise youngeach sunrise brings warmth for the daylulling all to rest during summer's glow.a crisp of fall begets nights of coolnessleaves change color and glide to earththe North Star twinkles in its boldnessas Christmas lights flash through townsthe group has stood tall, year after yearas Winter relinquishes it's frozen graspwarmer spring days take over from coldGlorious trees be they oak, pecan or ash,some die and fall, many others rise highertogether forever in a grand stand of trees.​

​Ngozi Olivia Osuoha is a young Nigerian poet/ writer and a graduate of Estate Management. She has some experience in banking and broadcasting. She has published some works abroad in some foreign magazines in Ghana, Liberia, India and Canada, among others. She enjoys writing.

DEAR JANUARY ​

Dear January You are primary And also secondary Cooking the tertiary With a supplementary To make it complimentary, Yet we seem elementary Because life is visionary So as a missionaryIn the disciplinaryYou must not be ordinary For our sanitary To tell the storyOf our history Beyond February. ​

DEAR FEBRUARY​

Dear February If you become monetary Also be honorary,If you turn purgatory Let us go contrarySo that our literary Would not be infantry Rather sound commentary Which would be mandatory To the binary And the summary Would be legendaryTo the effect, contributory As onward we March. ​

DEAR MARCH​

Dear March We hope you matchThis lantern, patchAnd put up the starchTo hold the watchSo that our batchCan warm the hatchAnd not perchAnywhere to catch Because our thatchShall roof over April. ​

DEAR APRIL ​

Dear April There is a billSo listen and tillTo hear the chill,For you must fillAnd grillThe gillSo that the willFor the pillShall drillThe hillNot to kill Come what may. ​

DEAR MAY​

Dear May For each day You shall payAnd also laySo calm our bay, Even if we are clay,Then you shall make hayTo quickly stayAnd not slayAs you help not to strayBut find the rayFor the sayTo lead the way. ​

DEAR WOMEN​

Dear WomenThe world is a jungleBe a lionThat way, you win the struggle.

Dear WomenThe world is a beastCall her a banquet,That way you cannot be the least.

​Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in a state of desperation engineered by late capitalism, within which his mind is a mere subset of a much larger hallucination wherein men are machines, machines are men, and the world and everything in it are mere dreams whose eddies and currents poets can channel briefly but cannot control. Perhaps it goes without saying that he lives in Los Angeles.

guard and give the ghost its paymentpenny ante upmotherfucker

every ounce of your strengthto goad the monster in the pit

***

​no graceless runnot any wake

we're dreaming in denialrunning

so fast to the sea

heading off the sleight of handin our turn around the sleigh and seed

***

​death waves his mighty handshaking the nailsparting the stemsbaking the breadevery day

death waves his mighty handawful and lightbare in the hour and the minutewatching the city run past

he takes the wave out of the airto fete the cityshaking his armsstamping his feet

death waves his mighty handssignaling the shred of doubtover the whirling bend above

he's shaking his ass in the dark

​

***

one when twoonly undo andmake tenmake anything yourspounding your fist into itover and over

box and break the almsthe ace and calm stained graceover the fenceover the markthe end's in sightbut newer charts and handsmean everything is a divorcewalking me to standstillgrog and gainful madnessslippage and weightburying me south

again and again

identity's like thatagain and againagain

​

***

Daginne Aignend is a pseudonym for the Dutch writer, poetess, and photographic artist Inge Wesdijk.She likes hard rock music and fantasy books. She is a vegetarian and spends a lot of time with her animals.Daginne posted some of her poems on her Facebook page and on her fun project websitehttp://www.daginne.com, she’s also the co-editor of Degenerate Literature, a poetry, flash fiction, and arts E-zineShe has been published in many Poetry Review Magazines, in the bilingual anthology (English/Farsi), ‘Where Are You From?’ and in the Contemporary Poet’s Group anthology ‘Dandelion in a Vase of Roses’. Three poems are translated in Serbian and published in the Literary Review Belgrado.

Carl Scharwath, has appeared globally with 100+ journals selecting his poetry, short stories, essays or art photography.Two poetry books 'Journey To Become Forgotten' (Kind of a Hurricane Press).and 'Abandoned' (ScarsTv) have been published. Carl is the art editor for Minute Magazine, a dedicated runner and 2nddegree black- belt in Taekwondo.

This work was a collaboration between Daginne Aignende and Carl Scharwath where each artist wrote a poem for the others photography.

Susan P. Blevins was born in England, lived 26 years in Italy, and has now resided in the USA for the past 24 years, first in Taos, NM, and currently in Houston, TX. While living in Rome she had a weekly column in an international, English-language newspaper, writing about food and restaurant reviews primarily, though not exclusively. Since living in the USA she has written pieces on gardens and gardening for N. American and European publications (Sunset Magazine, Garten Praxis), and she is now writing stories of her life, travels and philosophy and is gaining traction in various literary publications (including Negative Capability, Kind of a Hurricane, New Verse News, When Women Waken, Chicago Literati, Mused BellaOnline, Feminine Collective, Scarlet Leaf, and many others). She loves reading, writing, cats, classical music, and stimulating conversation, and believes that the purpose of life is love and service.

​THE YELLOW HOUSE

​I fell in love with you the first time I saw you, ten years ago. Your golden ochre walls smiled at me through the wrought-iron gate, your warm, buttery glow reaching beyond the bars and over the high wall along the street, to stream out and bathe me in your sunshine. This has to be a happy house, I thought to myself. Well, happy to my mind anyway, for one very simple reason. This little two story house shouts out to me of Italy, inviting me to enter. Ciao bella! Benvenuta! I owned a golden colored house once, hunkered into the fecund countryside around Rome. I loved that house, with its vines stretching up behind it, and the big vegetable garden I planted, and my wine cellar, dug out of the living tufa rock, holding never less than 5,000 liters of wine, from my land, my labor, not to mention the two gnarled fig trees laden with fruit twice a year. Hard work living there, yes, but happy times shared with various cats, and Mommo, the contadino who lived close by and taught me how to tend my vines. So although we are inTexas, dear little yellow house, you have become Italy for me. I drive past you slowly, first one way and then the other, and sometimes I even stop and peer in, and wonder. Wonder if one day I will ever live in you. The front steps leading up to the bright front door beckon me, and in my fantasy I go up them and slip through the door into my Italian reality. I hear strains of opera, and sometimes the sounds of Neapolitan music, see the folk dancers clad in white, red and green, the colors of the Italian flag, merrily laughing as they grab my hands and whirl me into the rhythm of their tarantella. I inhale the nostalgic aromas I smelled only in Italy, of fresh, home-grown, home-made tomato sauce, of basil pulled in bunches from the garden, branches of fragrant rosmarino stuffed into roasting chicken, and parsley, or erbetta, meaning little grass, as the Romans fondly call parsley, that goes well with everything. They even liken a person to prezzemolo if that person fits in well in multiple circumstances. She’s like prezzemolo, they say. So many food expressions, so much earthy celebration of life. All this I feel wash over me every time I look at you, dear little yellow house of my dreams. What was, what might still be.